A Glimpse of Darkness

by Lara Adrian

  “So much for not scaring anyone,” I muttered. Chalice’s voice was deeper than mine. It felt powerful, like I could scream to wake the dead. No pun intended.

  I crouched next to Pat and checked her head, but found no gushing wound. Just a small lump. It’s not every day that someone sees a reanimated corpse. Likewise, it’s not every day a person becomes a reanimated corpse. My day was decidedly much worse, so I did the first sensible thing that came to mind. I stole her tennis shoes.

  No way was I walking hell knew how far in my bare feet. The white canvas shoes fit snugly, unlike my clothes, and helped provide a bit of warmth for my ice-cube toes. I padded over to the medical examiner’s desk. A cardboard box labeled “Effects” sat on the blotter, surrounded by untidy files, scraps of paper, and other office sundries.

  Inside the box, I discovered a stack of manila envelopes, each one different in thickness and weight. I sifted until I found a slim one with “Chalice Frost” printed on the front. I tore it open and upended the contents onto the desk.

  Out fell a pair of sealed plastic bags. Inside one was a gold hoop—the missing belly ring—and in the second a pair of silver cross earrings. No wallet or license. No scraps of information to tell me who this Chalice chick was, besides poorly named.

  I needed an address, or even a phone number. I’d broken into morgues in the past, usually to check mutilated bodies for signs of Dreg attack, so this wasn’t an entirely unfamiliar environment. I plucked her chart from the foot of the exam table. Chalice Frost, aged twenty-seven. She lived in an apartment in Parkside East, one of the last “nice” neighborhoods in the city.

  The chart also listed a phone number. Pat said my—her—roommate identified Chalice’s body. Was she at home? Would she pick me up if I called? Or would she freak out and faint like reliable old Pat?

  The one thing I really wanted was a cell phone. Pat had a phone on her desk, but as I reached for the receiver, I couldn’t think of a single number to call. Not even Wyatt’s number. I should have known his number. I had dialed it a thousand times. But no, the little space in my brain reserved for that string of digits was empty.

  This was bad.

  I tore a piece of paper from one of the M.E.’s files and scribbled down the address and phone number. With no pockets in my extra-baggy clothes, I stuck the paper in my borrowed shoes.

  A daily newspaper caught my eye. Ignoring the headlines about inflated gasoline prices, I checked the date. May twentieth.

  “Twentieth,” I said, trying it out. “May. Twentieth.” Nope.

  It had to be a mistake. My brain was fuzzy and my memories hazy, but I knew that I set out to find Wyatt on May thirteenth. It was the day that the Owlkin Clan was attacked; the entire nest was destroyed because of me. Everything had changed two days before that, the night my partners and I were attacked by a pack of vampire half-breeds. My partners had died; I hadn’t.

  The other Hunters had come after me, screaming for my head, and I’d run. I’d eventually gone to the Owlkins—a peaceful race of shape-shifting birds of prey. Then I’d been found and the Owlkins slaughtered. It hadn’t made sense then, and it didn’t make sense now. I’d given up and decided to turn myself in. To stop running. To stop getting others killed.

  Had I gotten myself killed in the process? Chalice died last night, but when did I, Evangeline Stone, die? What had happened to the last seven days? And why the hell was I back?

  Instinct told me that someone had screwed up. You didn’t mess with a reincarnation spell without putting all of your ducks in a row, and while my new body was strong and young, it felt untrained. Unready for the physical, painful nature of my former job as a Dreg Bounty Hunter, and whatever task still lay ahead of me. Chalice Frost could not have been their first choice—whoever “they” were. Someone should have been there to greet me when I woke. Instead, I was rooting through a dead woman’s personal effects, scaring the shit out of hapless coroners, and hoping I could get away without being caught.

  Time to trek across town to Chalice’s apartment for more cash and a change of clothes. Maybe I’d even remember Wyatt’s phone number on the way. I just hoped that her roommate wasn’t home. One freak-out per day was my limit.

  From the desk drawer, I rustled a key ring that held at least a dozen different keys, all attached to a glittery metal P. One of them had a black, plastic sleeve around the top, engraved with a familiar logo. Car key. Bingo.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  The male voice echoed through the cramped room. I pivoted on one foot, dropping my shoulders and balling both fists. At least, that’s what I did in my head. In reality, my gradually loosening limbs tangled, and I stumbled two steps forward, hands up like a drunk ninja.

  Dr. Thomas stood just inside the room, a file in one hand and an expression of confusion painting his age-lined face.

  No one had sneaked up on me in years. Not even a goblin, and they were built for stealth. I should have heard the squeak of the door hinge and ducked before he ever saw me. But I was listening with someone else’s ears—untrained ears, without years of survival to make them sharp. Indecision froze me—not a place I liked to be.

  Dr. Thomas shifted his confusion from me to Pat’s sprawled body, his caterpillar eyebrows arching high on his small forehead. “Pat?” His attention reverted to me, widening both eyes. “What did you do to her?”

  His voice quavered. He didn’t launch himself at me or attempt to help Pat, further hinting at the total wimp beneath the angry bluster. I considered whamming him with the truth, but didn’t really want a stroke on my conscience.

  “I didn’t lay a hand on her,” I said, which was very much true. The next part, not so much. “I got lost.”

  He stared, not quite believing. His attention wandered, probably taking in my odd state of dress. He paused on my right hand. I looked down and groaned. The plastic I.D. bracelet still clung to my wrist, probably attached when the body was brought down to the morgue.

  “Damn,” I said, tugging at the reinforced band. It didn’t give.

  “That isn’t possible,” he said.

  I smiled. “What’s not possible? A frozen dead girl coming back to life? Doc, if you only knew half of the things that happen in this city after dark, you’d run screaming for the sunny south and never look back.”

  He continued to stare, all of the color slowly draining from his face. Better ask my questions before he did something crazy like scream for help or pass out.

  “I don’t suppose you know where Shelby Street is from here, do you? I’m a tad disoriented.”

  He jacked the thumb of his right hand over his shoulder—a vague direction at best—and grunted something. I took fast advantage of his incredulity, and headed for the door. On second thought, I about-faced and snagged Pat’s keys off the desk.

  “Wait,” Dr. Thomas said.

  “Can’t; sorry.”

  “You were dead.”

  His plaintive tone gave me pause. For someone so intimidating only five minutes ago, he looked like a lost child. It made me want to put him out of his misery.

  “Do yourself a favor,” I said, crossing the distance between us in three long strides. “Tell yourself someone broke in and stole the body. It’ll make it easier to sleep at night.”

  He blinked. I swung and caught him low in the jaw. The impact jarred my fist and shoulder—Chalice was definitely not a fighter—but Thomas went down like a stone. Two people unconscious in a matter of minutes was not a great start to the day.

  No time to ponder the consequences, though. I had a former Handler to find, no idea where to start looking in a city of half a million people, and if anyone else in Chalice Frost’s life knew she was dead, I was in for a very eventful day.

  Chapter Two

  71:21

  I dumped Pat’s car two blocks away from my destination and humped it through one of the nicest neighborhoods in the city to get to Chalice’s building. Uncracked sidewalks, trees with little fences around them, n
eatly trimmed hedges, and graffiti-less walls surrounded me on all sides. So different from the rest of the city.

  Few Dregs crossed the Black River, so I rarely ventured into Parkside East. I certainly couldn’t have afforded the clean, spacious apartments that lined the streets on this side of the river—a slash of concrete and putrid water that divided light from dark, human from Dreg.

  During the trip across the river, the gash on my left arm finished its annoying, itchy healing process. A pencil-thin scar remained, the only fading evidence of what Chalice had done to herself. Even the dappling of track marks had disappeared. I checked my belly button. The hole for the gold hoop was gone. Completely healed. So were my earlobes. Weird.

  I double-checked the scribbled address against the apartment building, then went inside. The small lobby was tidy and smelled of furniture polish and glass cleaner. Even the elevator smelled fresh and new. I punched the button for the fifth floor and waited for the doors to close, completely lacking a plan for once I got up there. Knock and hope the roommate answered was my best option. Breaking and entering was possible, thanks to my day job. It was just made more difficult by my severe lack of tools to—

  A hand jammed its way between the sliding doors and forced it back open. I tensed, instincts preparing me for a fight. A little girl, no more than ten years old, dashed inside, clutching a cloth grocery sack. She flashed me a pink-lipped smile.

  “Thanks, Chalice,” she said in a sunny, singsong voice.

  Neighbor. Cute kid. “No problem,” I said.

  She eyed me over the lip of the sack and a protrusion of potato chips. “Your clothes look funny today.”

  “I’m in disguise.” I held one finger to my lips, hoping the child played along. The last thing I needed was a pint-sized shadow, especially if I ended up jimmying the door lock. “Don’t tell anyone you saw me, okay?”

  “Like a game?” Her round eyes widened, delighted at having a secret with an adult.

  “Absolutely like a game.”

  She giggled and nodded, her blond hair swishing around her cherubic cheeks. She shifted the bag into one arm and pretended to turn an invisible key in front of her mouth.

  “That’s my girl,” I said.

  As each floor lit up and passed us by, my anxiety mounted. She hadn’t gotten off yet. Please, let her live on one of the floors above.

  The elevator dinged on the fifth floor. I stepped out, and she followed. The corridor branched left and right, but had no signs indicating which numbers lay in which direction. I glanced at the plates on the two nearest doors: 508 on the left and 509 on the right. Chalice lived in 505, so I took a chance and turned left.

  The little girl followed, still grinning like a lunatic, and stopped in front of 506. No wonder she seemed so friendly. We were neighbors.

  They were neighbors.

  Whatever.

  She watched intently while I stared dumbly at an apartment I’d never seen, in a body that wasn’t mine. I tossed her a sunny smile, turned the knob, and made a show of surprise. “Well, darn it,” I said. “That’s not supposed to be locked.”

  “Where are your keys?” she asked.

  “I must have lost them. That was pretty silly of me, huh?” I turned, pretending to leave.

  “You gave my mom a key.”

  Thank God. I turned back around. “Really? Gosh, I’d forgotten that.”

  “Yeah, when you and Alex were both gone a week last summer, we came over to water the plants. I’ll get it!”

  She was inside her apartment before I could respond, and back in seconds, sans groceries. She proudly displayed the round, copper key. “There, see?” she said.

  “You’re a lifesaver.” I plucked the key from her small fingers.

  “Grape or cherry?”

  I blinked. “What?”

  She grinned as if this was our own private joke. “What flavor Lifesaver, silly?”

  “Definitely cherry.”

  She bounced, giggled, and let the euphoria dance her back into her own apartment. The door finally closed and stayed that way.

  I pushed the key into the dead bolt, turned it, and the solid wood door opened. I stepped inside and closed the door.

  The immediate odor of stale beer surprised me. I stood on the edge of a spacious, well-decorated living room. A matching striped sofa and chair coordinated with the dark wood tables. Lamp shades matched the shade of the throw rug. Framed prints of ocean scenes decorated the walls. It wasn’t expensive, but definitely tasteful.

  An open kitchen with eating counter was situated on the right side of the apartment. Directly ahead, sliding glass doors gave way to a patio of some sort, hidden behind gauzy mauve curtains. Three doors lined the left wall. Chalice’s room lay behind one of them.

  In the kitchen, a garbage can was overflowing with glass beer bottles. Two empty cases sat on the floor next to it. No other party evidence pointed to a recent, serious bender. A troubling thought.

  A framed photograph lay facedown on the counter. I lifted it. My new face smiled back at me, happy and whole, arms around the shoulders of a very handsome man. He had vivid blue eyes, brown hair, and a cocky smile. Boyfriend? Brother? Hairstylist?

  I wished for some of Chalice’s memories; it would make this part a lot easier. Of course, I didn’t really want a dead woman’s consciousness vying for control of this body. I had enough things to deal with without adding multiple personality disorder to the mix.

  Door number one concealed an ivory and blue room with plain oak furniture, a desk covered with books, and very little in the way of personal items. Very male, and very likely not Chalice’s. The middle door was the bathroom, squeaky clean and organized. Toothbrushes in the holder, no water marks on the mirror or dry toothpaste blobs in the sink. Chalice and her roommate must have been like-minded neat freaks to keep an apartment so tidy.

  The third door opened easily, and I stepped into an unfamiliar world—a world of white carpet and pink-flowered wallpaper. Pink and red pillows rested on a white bedspread, and red curtains bracketed the room’s single window. An enormous painting of a vase of flowers covered most of the wall above a whitewashed desk. Every stick of furniture in the room was painted white. Stuffed animals lined a shelf high on the wall—bears and cats and puppies and pigs.

  “Oh, ew,” I said.

  I marched over to the white-shuttered closet doors. If her clothes were mostly pink, too, I was going to throw up. I yanked them open and was presented with an array of colors and styles. Very little pink in the bunch. Disaster averted. I rifled through until I found a stretchy red tank top and a pair of black jeans. Comfort clothes, something I could easily move in.

  A quick search through her dresser turned up the appropriate undergarments, and I changed. Money was next. I inspected the half-dozen purses I’d spotted in the closet. Where the hell was her wallet? I’d settle on untraceable cash hidden in a sock, but that drawer had, likewise, yielded nothing.

  I poked through her jewelry box. Standard mall stuff, nothing of secondary market value. Wrapped in pink tissue—what else?—I found a tasteful silver cross necklace. Engraved on the back were three words: “Love Always, Alex.” Sweet. I put it on. Crosses were an old joke in my line of work, a holdover from a time when people actually believed they warded off evil creatures. Silly superstitions.

  Silver, on the other hand, is a potent weapon against the shape-shifters of the world. Weres are as allergic to silver as Bloods are to unpolished wood. I’d seen vampires stabbed with pine splinters as small as my pinkie who fell into their version of anaphylactic shock and died within minutes.

  I used a pair of fingernail scissors to snip off the morgue bracelet. I tucked the creepy thing into the back of her jewelry box, glad to have it out of sight. Her desk yielded the jackpot—a slim, leather wallet and three keys on a C-shaped fob. One of the keys matched the one I’d gotten from the neighbor girl. They went right into my pocket. The wallet had a driver’s license, a bus pass, a debit card, and twe
nty dollars in cash. Not much, but it was a start.

  One last toss of the desk uncovered a lot of organization and nothing very personal. Not even a journal or an address book. Just a few photos of Chalice with other people, including a few more with the man from the picture frame. Had to be a boyfriend.

  Her laptop was off. I left it alone, but made a mental note to snoop later. It was inching closer to five o’clock, and I needed to get in and out before the roommate came home.

  I crouched down and reached under the bed. Nothing, not even dust bunnies. I turned around and flopped down on the floor, blowing hard through my mouth. My fingers curled in the thick carpet. I wanted to rip it up and fling it out the window, to stop feeling so helpless. I hit the side of the mattress with my elbow. The headboard cracked against the wall.

  Is this what a suicidal person did? Clean her room spotless before slashing her wrist? She couldn’t have done it here—no way the carpet would be so spotless. Bathtub, maybe. No streaks or overflowing water, not for such a tidy girl. And what about those track marks? I hadn’t found a single syringe or bag of powder among her things.

  “Why did you do it, Chalice?” I said, fingering the thin chain around my throat.

  As much as the pink-loving contradiction of a young woman deserved understanding, I couldn’t waste time on it today. Her body wasn’t ideal, but it was alive and healthy (unusually so), and I had it on loan for a little while. Item number two on my list of things to find out ASAP: how long did I have?

  I stood up and went into the kitchen. A basket of mail sat on the counter. I shuffled through it. Bills and official mail, all addressed to Chalice Frost. Near the bottom of the stack were three letters, sent to this apartment, under the name of Alexander Forrester. Same as the one engraved on the necklace charm. I remembered what the neighbor girl had said, about my roommate’s name, and glanced at the framed photo on the counter. He kind of looked like an Alex.